


Can You See The Stars?

by fragilelittleteacup



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brain Damage, Cancer, Fluff, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Jealous Dean, Near Death Experiences, Protective Dean Winchester, Suicide Attempt, based off a prompt i saw a long time ago
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-16 23:42:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8122150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: Sam's not Sam any more, not really.





	

 

Anybody who glanced at Sam would’ve thought nothing out of the ordinary- then, if they had let their eyes linger a moment longer on him, they’d have thought it strange that a grown man should be gazing so serenely at the stars- they would, perhaps, be amused by the sight of his strong, muscular body, slumped like the posture of a child.

Dean was watching him, of course. Dean was always watching him nowadays. He shuffled closer to his brother and sat behind him. Sam, as per usual, showed no reaction; Dean sometimes wondered how much of the world reached his little brother, wherever his mind was lost.

“Can you see the stars, Sammy?” Dean asked, his voice quiet. Sam gazed up at the glittering sky, his eyes half- lidded as he smiled placidly. He was rather beautiful like this; so free, so vulnerable. Dean felt a lump congeal in his throat.

He hated that expression.

“They’re still the same, despite everything. Just like you.” He cleared his throat and ignored the tears that wanted to reign supreme over his pointless, useless control; Sam couldn't hear him crying anyway.

“Because you’re okay.” Dean continued, wrapping his arms around his brother. “You’re okay.”

Sam reached up and held onto his arm and, just for a heart wrenchingly short moment, Dean could pretend that everything was the same as before.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

Sometimes, not often enough, Sam would come back.

Dean still had no idea what triggered it. They’d be eating breakfast, sleeping, walking or just sitting in the car…

And Sam would reach out to Dean, eyes wide and desperately alert.

And he would hold on for as long as he could- sometimes a minute, sometimes more. Just long enough to tell Dean he was sorry, that he was still there and he would never leave- but never with words. He couldn’t speak anymore. Only ever with his terrified eyes, his hazel irises brightened by tears of anger.

Dean would hold on too- he would cling to him for sanity; cling to what he used to know and the life he was never allowed to have.

Then Sam’s eyes would gloss over again. They always did, and Dean would cry.

He always cried.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

Dean often wondered was he was cursed.

Cursed to live out days like this, with a brother who couldn’t remember his own name, let alone tell him everything was okay- he almost wished for those petty lies, almost wished that he could stall reality. Just for a moment. One second of freedom. After all, what had he done to deserve this? Surely he’d been through enough to satisfy whatever sadistic son of a bitch was bombarding them with needless trials of torture? Surely they’d both suffered enough?

But sometimes Dean thought it was better this way; Sam was so happy, after all. He was always smiling, grinning like a baby. Then Dean would remember that Sam didn’t have control over himself most of the time- he wasn’t happy. Not really. He was… buried. And, every time Sam surfaced, he was crying- his eyes begging Dean never to leave because he’d die within days of his big brother’s absence.

That was the only reason Dean didn’t shoot himself in the head.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

They’d run into Sherriff Mills, once. She’d come to the town where they’d been staying for a year and a half. It was purely coincidence; she’d been passing through and seen their car.

Dean hated coincidences.

She’d walked in, hugged Dean, and cracked some joke about the fact that Sam hadn’t greeted her. Then Sam had continued to gaze into space from his slumped position on a plastic chair where he spent most of his time- and she had finally asked Dean what was wrong.

Well, he had to tell her, didn’t he? He had to say it out loud, ‘It was cancer.’

Then he had to watch her face go from shocked to horrified, and then he had to tell her that Sammy had been dying. Then he had to say that doctors had gotten rid of it after all.

And what else they had to remove.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

Sheriff Mills had been stopping by more and more. Dean didn’t know why.

He watched her come and go, torn between intense jealousy and relief. She got to come and go of her own free will- why didn’t Dean deserve that? He hated her freedom. Maybe she just came to patronise him. But he knew, honestly, that wasn’t why she kept coming. It just made him feel better, to have someone to hate- then again, ‘better’ was relative. It was a sort of resentful, bitter feeling.

But he knew it was unfair to hate her. He still didn’t know why she kept coming, but it didn’t matter. She was a human being, and Dean had forgotten what it was like to have a friend.

A lot of the time she talked with Dean, and they’d make small talk about the latest Hunts. But that made Dean sad, to think about what he couldn’t have- he didn’t show it, but Jodie was smarter than that. Their conversations grew shorter, and she began to spend most of her time with Sam, and tried to get a response from him.

It made Dean feel better to know that Sam never woke up for _her_.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

Dean had been thinking, lately.

Maybe there was no happy ending.

Sam wasn’t getting better, and it’d been three years.

He was getting tired. Tired of feeding Sam, tired of watching his empty gaze, tired of his carefree grin, tired of having no life and talking to no one else except Jodie.

He’d… _considered_ this in the past, but Sam had always been the one reason not to.

But Sheriff Mills said she was going to visit them today- he could trust her. He had to. He was tired, just… too tired.

He could trust her to look after Sammy.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

It hurt more than Dean had expected.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

He woke up. He wasn’t supposed to wake up. But he did- and, when he did, he was sure he was in Hell. Because there he was. Sammy, all forty years of him, sitting at his bedside. His burden, his brother, his responsibility, his one and his only. First, he considered hunting Sheriff Mills down and asking her why the hell she must’ve called an ambulance. Didn’t she know this was what he wanted? To be free?

Then Dean looked closer.

Sam was sitting up straight. His hands were clenched his lap, knuckles white and jaw tight. And-

-There were tears tracks down his cheeks. Glistening.

Dean stared at his brother, too afraid to move. It was all a dream anyway; he wanted it to last as long as possible.

Sam lifted his eyes to Dean’s.

“Sammy?” Dean reached out to him, ignoring the stab when the needle in his arm tugged. He touched his brother’s cheek. It felt warm.

Sam’s lips twitched.

“D’n…Dean...”

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

Things were better now. Sam was… as good as could be expected. He spoke little, though, and only to Dean- and even then his words were simple and limited. But as if that mattered to Dean.

Sheriff Mills told Dean about it later; about how the ambulance offers had tried to take Dean away from Sam, but Sam had followed, despite their efforts. He’d given a nurse a black eye when she tried to restrain him, and then Sheriff Mills had wisely suggested she take Sam to the hospital. Dean vowed never to forget how much he owed her.

Jodie said that Sam had spoken only one word whilst with her on the way to the hospital; ‘Dean.’

 

Odd to think that it only took his older brother’s attempt at suicide to bring him back.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

They were still Hunters. Dean had to do all the talking, and Sam had to sometimes sit in the Impala because the world wouldn’t stop spinning.

Sam had lost some muscle after three years of dormancy (then again, so had Dean), but he made up for it by protecting Dean with a passion and viciousness that helped him remember why he’d woken up at all.

Things were different. But then, the Winchesters had never had a basis for comparison that could establish what was ‘normal’.

If they were together, if they were safe, did it really matter?

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

“Those stitches holding together alright?” Dean asked his brother as they fell into the Impala’s worn, welcoming leather seats after a Hunt; a good old salt- and- burn.

Sam touched the puckered row of stitches above his eyebrow, nodded silently. Anyone else might’ve thought his response rude, but Dean knew otherwise.

Dean nodded and turned the key in the ignition. “Good.”

As they sped down the highway, Dean reached for the stereo- he turned it on and relished the loud guitar riff that followed.

Sam turned to grin at him. He opened his mouth and, after a second of thought, said, “Jerk.”

Dean smiled back, happier than he’d been in three long years. “Bitch.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
